


is love what you don't know

by blacktreacle



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Fluff, Liam teaches Zayn how to swim, Lifeguard Liam, M/M, Smut, Sort Of, Surfer Liam, The Smallest Amount of Angst, book Zayn, holiday romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-17
Updated: 2019-02-17
Packaged: 2019-10-30 11:05:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17827406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blacktreacle/pseuds/blacktreacle
Summary: Harry forces Zayn on a getaway to the Maldives, where he puts down his books and finds something worth staying for._ _ _ _(or) Liam teaches Zayn how to swim, and Zayn teaches Liam how to love.





	is love what you don't know

**Author's Note:**

> a cute fluffy ziam fic with surfer/lifeguard liam and a bookish zayn bc everyone needs a bit of that. 
> 
> you can find me on tumblr @treacle-black where i post randomly and without actual reason. 
> 
> (apologies for any typos. i have no beta lmao)

If you ask Zayn how Harry persuaded him to take an impromptu holiday to The Maldives, he would tell you it’s either because, A) Harry, in all his glory, is filthy rich and disgustingly charming, and so can convince anyone to do about anything that he wants to do; or, B) he caught Zayn at an awful time—most likely when he was either still half asleep or high on something he doesn’t know the name of, both of which cause the same side effects and induce the same emotion when being caught in said mood—especially, God forbid, by Harry.

“It’ll be fun,” Harry says, as they’re entering the jet.

Zayn’s hand, which on a usual day are enclosed around a pen as he writes down loose scribbles, are in their usual panicked, too-tight-for-comfort grip around the arms of his seat. “You say that all the time.”

“And do you always have fun?” Harry asks. His smile is self-assured and irritating, and Zayn wants to punch him. Given the situation, he thinks it would be justified.

“That’s not the point I’m making,” Zayn grits out.

“And what is your point?” Harry asks.

“I was perfectly fine sitting in my apartment all weekend, writing and catching up on books I’ve been too busy for,” Zayn says.

“Oh yes,” Harry hums. “I know being an old-headed, veteran bookworm is always top priority for you, but if you don’t start loosening up a little and having fun that pretty head of yours is going to start to wrinkle.”

“I have good genes,” Zayn says.

“And besides, I know you have a book or two stashed away somewhere in your bookcase,” Harry says. He turns to Zayn, pulling his sunglasses down. “I don’t intend to allow you a spare moment to read them, by the way.”

“Can you take those off?” Zayn says, irritated. “We’re inside. There’s no sun.”

“On the contrary, we’ll be closer to the sun than we’ve ever been.”

 

— + —

 

Zayn doesn’t like the heat. He remembers sticky summers in the gardens back in London, air that was humid even when it rained. Mosquito’s pinched at his skin, and Harry would say it was because he smelled so sweet. The feeling of sweat below his brow and in the nape of his neck made him writhe, his skin itching under the sun and even in the shade when the warmth of the pavement still brought that shimmer up into the sky.

He’d much rather be somewhere cold, where his cheeks pink in the morning breeze and his favourite coat welcomes him. Harry doesn’t like cold climates—it’s no good for his skin. So it’s always somewhere hot, where he spends time in the morning styling his hair, only for it to be ruined by the pool. He looks good with a tan, Zayn will admit. In fact, he catches himself staring more than he should, in those moments where he thinks no one is watching.

Harry looks good in the summer. Perhaps, that’s why it was so easy for Harry to convince Zayn to come.

The villa is ridiculous. But Zayn expected no less. Who needs twelve bedrooms when there’s only two of them? Harry says they might throw a party. Zayn thinks it’s big enough to host two.

He takes the room on the furthest side of the main room, furthest away from the music and any guests that might visit—Zayn never knows what Harry is going to do. It’s his best option at privacy in a villa that has no locks on the doors. Thick enough walls. There’s an echo of what’s playing outside but he can’t hear it. They’ve only been here twenty minutes and Harry has locked into the sound system. It’ll play non-stop until they leave, which is God knows when. Harry hasn’t given any details except that he wants Zayn to have fun.

His suitcase sits on the floor, the opening unzipped. He won’t unpack; there’s no point. If he has his way, he’ll be back in his apartment by the end of the weekend. Zayn rests back on the bed with a book he plucked from his suitcase and opens the page to the bookmark.

But Harry is good at keeping promises, and bursts in before he can finish a page.

“I thought I saw you slinking off back here,” Harry says. He makes himself comfortable on the bed. “And I thought I was clear on the rules.”

“This is my idea of fun, Harry,” he says. “I thoroughly enjoy myself.”

“Well, your idea of fun is going to be _thoroughly_ thrown out the window while we’re here.” Harry reaches forward and snatches the book from Zayn’s hands.

“Hey!” Zayn says.

“Fitzgerald can wait,” Harry says.

Zayn grabs the book back and stands to his feet. “It’s Salinger.”

“And how many times have you read it?” Harry asks.

“It’s a favourite.”

“What’s the point of reading it over and over again if you know what happens in the end?” Harry asks.

Zayn looks to him. Rebuttal is on his tongue. “What’s the point of taking the same drugs if you know the high it will give you?”

Harry shrugs. “Touché,” he says. “But I still want you to have fun. I push you into things because I want you to experiment. And… not with a new fucking syntax or a ballpoint pen.”

Zayn slips the book back into his suitcase and turns to Harry, who is sat on the end of the bed, his feet dangling over the side, an endearingly annoying smile on his face that Zayn has come to attach happiness with. Harry is giving him that look—upturned lips and dimpled cheeks and a perseverance in his brows that is almost certain to get him his own way—and, well, it’s only a matter of time. Harry knows he’s won. All he has to do is wait for Zayn to hole himself up until the fresh air his window exposes him to isn’t enough and he has to step outside to take a deep breath.

Zayn thinks this is what Harry means, when he thinks about it. If a hermit is forced out of his cave eventually, why waste time denying the inevitable. He’s already gotten Zayn to the island, for fuck sake.

Zayn sighs and folds his arms over his chest. “Fine. But I will need time to recover. I can’t stand the heat, or people.”

“Fine.” Harry sticks out his tongue. “There’s a nice pool outside. I want you to come in it with me.”

Zayn’s face seeps into alarm. “What? Harry, no, I can’t—you know I can’t swim.”

“The pool is shallow enough for you to touch the bottom,” Harry says. “Honestly, Zayn, I’m not going to take no for an answer.” He stands to his feet and turns to exit the room.

“This is the year you start challenging yourself and reaching new heights.”

“Do I have to start with a pool?” Zayn calls after him.

“No,” Harry says, and turns around. His smile is sly. “We can always start with the ocean.”

 

— + —

 

The sun is at it’s peak by the time they make it to the beach. The villa is not even five minutes away by foot, but Harry is on his phone, busy making plans. Already, Zayn is flushed, and that line of sweat above his lip grows until he has to wipe it away.

Harry isn’t with him long, running off to the nearest bar with two of his friends the moment their feet touch the sand. Zayn finds the closest beach chair with a parasol and sits in the shade with a relieved sigh. He brings the iced water bottle between his wrists to cool himself down and, now that Harry is only a mere silhouette in bright pink shorts in the distance, unfolds a book from the bottom of the bag, too. If he stays quiet enough and moves chairs every half hour, Harry will forget Zayn is there. He might even get away with sneaking back to his room after an hour or so, if he’s lucky.

Which, of course, he’s not. 

Harry walks back over ten minutes later with an exasperated expression. His hands would fly up into the air if he wasn’t balancing two glasses between them. The other two men follow behind him—Jim, and another he can’t remember—who take the surrounding seats. Their skin is tanned, their bodies muscular, a gleaming watch around their wrists or shining veneers to let Zayn know they belong right beside Harry.

“I thought we had an agreement,” Harry says. He hands Zayn one of the glasses.

“I didn’t agree to not read anything.”

“Yes, but we’re on a beach,” Harry says.

“A lot of people read on beaches when they’re on holiday.”

“Yes. Middle-aged women with four children. Not a pretty, youthful man with the whole island at his feet,” Harry says.

“Mentally, I already have two children, and I seem to already challenge my mother’s wisdom,” Zayn says. He looks at the glass in his hand, tropical colours infused with ice, and realises he’s not just holding this for Harry. “I don’t drink. You know that.”

“Well, you do this week,” Harry says. When Zayn places the glass down on the small table next to him, Harry sighs. “Zayn, come on. Loosen up a little. Just pretend it’s a J2O.”

“How can I pretend when it tastes like acid on my tongue?” Zayn says.

“It’s actually very sweet,” Jim says. He has an accent.

“And I asked them to tone it down on the Malibu,” Harry says. “Don’t make me pry your book from you again.”

Zayn shuts the book and sighs. “I would prefer an orange juice.”

“With a little bit of tequila?”

“No.”

“Not even a shot?”

“Harry, I don’t want to drink,” Zayn says.

Harry holds his hands up. “Alright. Have your fucking orange juice. I just thought some liquid courage would be a good idea, considering you don’t like water.”

Zayn’s eyes shoot to the sea as his heart picks up. The water. How did he forget it was there, when the waves are crashing like the beats of a drum against the sand. Zayn physically pushes himself back in his chair, his knees up.

“I think I’m fine staying back here,” he says.

“Zayn,” Harry says, “that is something you promised me.”

“Is it too late to renegotiate?” Zayn asks.

“Yes. We’re already at the beach.”

“Okay,” he says, “but what about sharks? I don’t know anything about this ocean.”

“It’s no different than the ocean we went to in Cornwall,” Harry says.

Zayn softly glares at him. “There aren’t any sharks in Cornwall, Harry.”

“If we stick to the shore, sharks aren’t going to get to you anyway.”

“Actually, there have been instances where sharks have come up across the beach,” Jim says. The man next to him hits his arm. Then, he reiterates. “But, that’s only when very big waves come in and they get washed up onto shore. The sea is very calm today.”

“Thanks, Jim,” Harry says, eyes hard. He turns to Zayn. “The water is so clear, you’re going to be able to see the seaweed around your feet. I think you’d notice if a shark was coming towards you.”

“I don’t know,” Zayn says. He’d really rather just stay here with his book and pretend to block out the world.

“Zayn, it will be fun. Most things are when you get past the initial fear of them,” Harry says.

Zayn looks out over the water, his chest tight with trepidation. “I just don’t see the fascination with the ocean. What’s so good—” He pauses. Something from the corner of his eye catches his attention. Walking out of the water and onto the shore, with wet, tanned skin that glistens under the sun, is a man. He strokes his hair back from his forehead and holds his chin up to the sun. And his thighs—though no one should be looking—are clad in the tightest pair of white shorts Zayn has seen. Is it a man? Perhaps. Zayn’s never seen someone emerge from the waves like that before. “—about it,” he finally finishes, his mouth partially slack.

Harry’s eyes follow Zayn’s gaze and turn back to him, smirking. “The hunk, huh?”

“What?” Zayn asks. His eyes glance briefly to Harry and back to the ocean.

Jim and the other man begin to laugh. “That’s Liam,” Jim says. “He’s worked as a lifeguard here for a few years. He makes all the girls cry.”

“And all the boys scream,” the other guy says, laughing to himself.

Zayn’s cheeks flush. He’d pass it off as the heat, but Harry is giving him one of his knowingly pointed looks.

“Is that what it will take?” Harry asks, and, giving no time for Zayn to reply, calls Liam’s name.

Liam waves and begins to walk over, a smile on his face. Zayn stutters with his tongue for a moment before falling quiet. He watches Liam adjust the band of his shorts—that have been brought down by the force of the water—and pull a hand through his hair.

“Hi,” he says.

His voice, Zayn thinks, is like butter. Zayn’s eyes bring themselves down to his lap.  
Harry greets him, and so do the others. Apparently, everyone here knows him but Zayn.

“This is my friend, Zayn,” Harry says, who nudges Zayn’s shoulder.

Zayn looks up and gives a meek wave. “Hi.”

“Hello, Zayn.” He smiles. “You’ve never visited with Harry before, have you?”

“No, I, uhm…” Zayn clears his throat. “I don’t get out much.”

“He’s a little hermit who stays in his cave full of books,” Harry says. “I’m trying to bring him out of his shell.”

Liam points to Zayn’s book. Which is, subjectively, balanced on top of Zayn’s groin. “I love reading at the beach.”

“Harry says I’m not allowed to whilst we’re here,” Zayn says.

“Do you always let him tell you what to do?” Liam asks.

Zayn opens his mouth to speak, but Harry beats him to it.

“Only because he can usually never decide things for himself,” Harry says. His smile, as it’s aimed at Zayn, is nothing less but endeared. “He’d rather shove his face into a book and wait for the stars.”

“Well, that sounds like a nice night,” Liam says, smiling assuredly.

Zayn awkwardly grins back. He has the sense that Liam doesn’t really like books at all and is only saying so for Zayn’s benefit—he cheeks must be redder than he thought. 

Liam sits down on the sand next to Harry. He’s opposite Zayn, and glances at him every so often through breaks in the conversation—or when he’s talking, which makes it feel as though what he’s saying is aimed at him, making Zayn feel part of the conversation, too. Zayn always ends up looking away. Down to his book, knowing he can’t open it without facing chagrin. Out to the ocean, or up to the clear sky, where single breaks of cloud make their way courageously across the expanse of blue. But whenever he looks back, Liam is staring at him. And sometimes, Harry flicks his eyes between the two of them and smiles to himself.

“Well, I’m going for a dip,” Harry says after he’s finished his drink. He looks to Zayn and nods his head.

“I’m really okay with staying here,” Zayn says.

“A promise is a promise.”

“What promise?” Liam asks.

Zayn looks to him, alarmed. “Nothing,” he says quickly.

“Zayn promised me he’d go into the ocean with me,” Harry says.

“I didn’t promise,” Zayn says. “I was coerced.”

“You don’t like the ocean?” Liam frowns. “It’s a beautiful place. Terrifying, but beautiful.”

“I’ve… never been a fan of huge bodies of water,” Zayn says. Why does he feel so anxious?

“Bad experience?” Liam asks.

Zayn shrugs.

“He’s afraid of sharks,” Harry says. “And he can’t swim.”

The two men sat beside Zayn begin to laugh, and Zayn can’t help but shrink into himself. He wants to take a deep breath, but he can’t. He wants to look up from his toes, curled and tight in embarrassment, but he doesn’t think he can. He wants to lift his head up and laugh it off with them, because a part of him, deep down, thinks they have a right to laugh. What twenty-six-year-old doesn’t know how to swim? Who is so traumatised by water that they’re afraid to even step their toes into the edge of a pool? It’s ridiculous, and he should laugh about it. But he can’t bring himself to.

“I know a lot of people who couldn’t swim,” Liam says. His tone is serious and… chastising? But not to Zayn. The other two men fall silent. “I’ve taught a lot of people how to swim. Or how to be comfortable in the water. I can show you.”

“No, you really don’t have to,” Zayn says.

“Well, I’m going to head in,” Harry says. He places his hand on Zayn’s shoulder. “Just join when you’re feeling ready.”

Zayn nods and watches him jog down the beach, disappearing into the water with a dive. The other two men follow, to Zayn’s relief. But, like the balance of scales, his heart still can’t sit in a constant rhythm, because Liam hasn’t joined them. In fact, he’s moved closer, now sitting on the seat Harry was just in. Zayn’s looks to the drink on the side, and, for some reason, there’s a temptation there that wasn’t before. So he picks it up and takes a sip. Liquid courage.

“The anticipation around something is actually much worse than doing it,” Liam says. “And it’s the most refreshing thing, being in the sea on a hot day like this. It cools you down.”

“I could just take a shower,” Zayn says. He slips the book back into the bag and turns, slightly, to face Liam.

Liam laughs. “You could. But there’s nothing like being in the ocean and just looking out and seeing that it never ends. It’s not just the perimeter of a bath. It’s endless.”

“That’s what I’m worried about,” Zayn says. “It’s like… one black hole that wants to suck me into the universe and not let go.”

“Sometimes, I get that jolt of fear, too. When I’m surfing and the wave is heavier than I expected, and the current is stronger, and it takes me under. I have that moment where I think I won’t reach the surface again. And it scares me,” Liam says. His eyes are intense, filled with a passion as he looks to Zayn. “But I always reach the top. I climb back on my board, and my heart is racing, and I feel free.” His smile is soft. “And, I can honestly say, I’ve never encountered a shark. Not even a mile out to sea. Perhaps I’m lucky, but if I’m  
safe from sharks that far out, then splashing your toes in the shallows I can personally say is one hundred percent safe.”

The thought loops in Zayn’s mind until it’s a circle of should he; shouldn’t he. The way Liam is looking at him is a sign the doubt on his face is far more evident than it ought to be. A lump is in his throat, and he can’t tell if it swells or qualms when he looks at Liam. The quiet of his room back at the villa calls for him. But he can’t deny the beautiful song of the waves along the beach, and the charming face of Liam, who, as he stands and reaches his hand out for Zayn to take, smiles down at him like the sun.

A rare breeze sweeps across his skin, tousling his courage to life, and he takes Liam’s hand. With his other, he wipes the sweat along the top of his forehead, and he takes a breath. Liam’s grip on him is sturdy like a vice, and the sand is quick to slip from underneath his feet as he walks. A part of him wishes it would just swallow him whole; the other, more decent and practical side of him recognises how nice it feels to hold Liam’s hand and be close to him.

Zayn glances down. Liam’s body is… well, he’s a lifeguard. He’s safe here, in this small little space. If he moves in a little closer, Zayn is sure Liam would wind his hand around Zayn’s waist.

He makes the boys scream.

Zayn jumps back as his toes hit the edge of the water. Deep in his thoughts, he didn’t even realise they’d crossed the expanse of the beach. He stares out in alarm at the royal sea, and the sea stares right back at him, menacingly.

“It’s okay,” Liam says, squeezing Zayn’s hand in reassurance. “The water is warm.” He looks down to his feet. “And I’m in it, too.”

“I don’t know,” he says. “I think we should just… head back.”

“Zayn, look at all of these people, being eaten by sharks,” Liam says, expanding his hand over the view of the water. Zayn wants to be offended, but he’s grinning. “Come on. Just take a few steps in with me.”

It’s like a hypnosis, Zayn thinks. How can he believe it so easily when it comes from Liam’s mouth? Perhaps it’s his tone that feels like honey to the ears, or that smile. Either way, Zayn takes a tepid step forward, and, realising that the water feels good on his skin, takes another. Another. He keeps going until his hips are covered by the water level. Liam is still beside him, standing closer now than he was before, his hand having slipped from Zayn’s hand up to the curve of his elbow.

Zayn breaths out a laugh. “Making sure I don’t float away?”

“Of course. How could I ever let that happen?” Liam says. “Are you okay?”

Zayn takes a moment. “I feel like I’m standing on a cliff’s edge, and you’re keeping me from wobbling. But if I was stood here alone…”

“You’re not alone,” Liam says. His eyes are ardent. “I’ve got you. And Harry is right over there.”

Liam points right, where Harry is jumping about in the water with his arms in there. Zayn can just about hear the distant echo of his words over the shouts and splashes of other people near him. Then, he’s wading his way over, fast, and Zayn doesn’t have time to object—as much as he wants to—before Harry takes Zayn in his arms and spins them both around in the water. But his legs can’t handle the force of the water and they both fall over, going underneath the water completely.

The water is warm and goes up Zayn’s nose. He reaches out in panic, unable to open his eyes, before he’s pulled out of the water by two hands. He chokes, but it’s on nothing but his own panicked air. He wipes at his eyes, opens them, and sees Liam, who looks partially concerned but mostly amused. His hands are on Zayn’s arms, holding him above the water.

“Are you okay?” Liam asks.

Harry splashes out from underneath the surface, laughing. He wipes his hair back from his eyes and looks to Zayn.

“You’re an arsehole,” he says to Harry, who only laughs harder in response.

“Maybe so,” Harry says, “but you survived, didn’t you?”

“You’re still an arsehole,” he says again, but now he smiles, too. He looks to Liam. “Thanks.”

“It’s my job, remember?” Liam says.

“I can’t believe you’re in the fucking water,” Harry says. “I told you, you could do it.”

“Actually, you just forced me to,” Zayn says.

“You wouldn’t have done it otherwise,” Harry says. “How about we get you that orange juice now?”

Liam squeezes Zayn’s arms before letting go. Zayn looks to where Liam’s hands just lay, glancing at Liam with a shyness in his eyes, and looks back to Harry, who pushes his hair back and looks out to the sun.

“I think I need something stronger,” Zayn says to him.

Harry claps him on the back. “Now you’re talking. You wanna join, Liam?” he asks, but he’s looking at Zayn, too, smiling.

“I could have a drink,” Liam says. He’s looking at Zayn, too.

Zayn smiles back to him. Liam, without asking, takes Zayn’s hand again and helps him out of the water, and doesn’t let go until they reach the bar.

 

— + —

 

Zayn wakes up in the morning feeling refreshed. And it’s not because he had a good night’s sleep. In fact, the heat kept him awake for most of it. But he smiles at the sun as he opens his eyes, the brightness of the room, for once, he’s enjoying. His apartment in London is creaky and old, and the dreary weather usually does nothing for the aged walls. But everything here, in the villa, is shiny new. Even that little jump in Zayn’s heart as he remembers yesterday.

Liam had stayed with them until his shift was up on the beach, and returned when it was over, just before sunset, to enjoy the bonfire with them. The other two men—Jim and, as Zayn discovered later, Andrew—had stayed also, but Zayn hadn’t paid much attention. He couldn’t focus on anything else when Liam was sat beside him the whole night. Not too close as to imply a provocative undertone, but close enough so, if Liam wanted to, he could lean in close and talk low to Zayn and no one else would hear. Harry glanced at them all night, his brows presumptive, and yet his eyes protective and hard as they landed on Liam.

Zayn thinks his cheeks had been hot all night. But if you asked him, which Harry did once they returned to the villa, he’d blame it on the bonfire.

“You did what?” Zayn splutters to Harry.

Harry stands on the other side of the island, leant against the side. “I invited Liam to the party we’re having tonight.”

“We’re having?” Zayn says. “Why wasn’t I told that we’re having this party?”

“Because it’s my villa and I can do what I want,” Harry says. “I didn’t think it would be a problem. You guys hit it off last night.”

Zayn scoffs. “We didn’t hit it off.”

“Yes, you fucking did, Zayn.” Harry smirks. “He kept staring at you.”

“So did you,” Zayn counters.

“I had to be looking in order to see that he was staring at you,” Harry says. “Look, it’s not that big of a deal. If it makes you that uncomfortable, I’ll just ring him and tell him not to come.”

“No, you can’t do that,” Zayn says.

“Why not?”

“You can’t just un-invite him from a party for no reason.”

“Sure I could. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

Zayn’s eyes narrow. “You should have known that inviting him in the first place would make me uncomfortable.”

“Well, I don’t want to make you that uncomfortable.” Harry shrugs and bites at his toast. “I just thought it would make it easier for you if there was someone here you already knew.”

“As opposed to what?” Zayn asks.

“As opposed to you cooping up in your room the entire time. You know what I mean, Zayn.”

“That sounds absolutely fine to me.”

Harry sighs. “I didn’t bring you on holiday to do the exact same things you do in London. It’s called a holiday for a reason.”

“I don’t mean to sound ungrateful,” Zayn says, “but you know this type of stuff is difficult for me. I’m very antisocial.”

“I know. That’s why I think this will be good for you,” Harry says.

“I don’t think that’s the way social anxiety works,” Zayn says. “Plus, you know drugs and alcohol and parties aren’t my thing.”

“You don’t have to take drugs and drink. Liam doesn’t,” Harry says.

Zayn quirks a brow. “He doesn’t?”

“He’s a lifeguard. He has to be responsible.”

Zayn stresses a hand through his hair. “You could have at least told me.”

“You’re right, I’m sorry,” Harry says.

“When is the party?” Zayn asks.

“It starts at eight this evening,” Harry says. “Put on your best dress shirt.”

“I didn’t bring a dress shirt,” Zayn says.

“Then borrow one of mine,” Harry says. “And do your hair up nice. You’re going to have a good time, trust me.”

Zayn is not having a good time. It’s too hot for so many bodies to be in one building, and his small frame makes Harry’s dress shirt hang off him in a way he thinks is unflattering as he looks in the mirror. The drink in his hand is bitter and just for appearance. His hairline is already damp with sweat, and even standing by the window doesn’t do much. At least, the view is calming.

Harry greets him at some point, but only for a moment before he waltzes off to drink with someone again, walking off as Zayn is mid-sentence. Zayn begins to get the feeling that Harry invited him less for Zayn’s experience and more for himself, so he wouldn’t feel like a bad friend for leaving Zayn behind whilst he lavished himself on some exotic island and sent pictures back to dreary, old London.

A part of Zayn is mad at the thought. Harry thinks Zayn is miserable because he has few friends that aren’t fictional and prefers nice pens or the sound of a typewriter, to people. And Zayn might not have a lot of confidence—and an inundating amount of anxiety—but he likes to believe he could be, and do anything, he wants. If he wants it. Dragging him to a luxury island in a luxury villa to brag about other unimportant luxuries will only make someone like Zayn miserable. And, well, he’s not far off. He’d much rather be in his apartment next to his fire, listening to the rain patter down his window. It’s winter, now—it might even be snowing.

Zayn takes a breath of the warm air. He’s destined for a cold  
when he goes back home.

A whistle catches his attention, and somehow Zayn knows it’s Harry. Zayn finds him in the centre of the room. He motions over his shoulder, to the doorway leading to the foyer, where more people are shuffling in. One of those people is Liam. And their eyes, as Zayn looks over, lock almost immediately. Zayn turns back around, out into the open air, and takes a breath. He knows it’s impossible, but he hears every single one of Liam’s footsteps, heavy on the marble floor like glass, their echoes, with each foot, getting louder and louder until they stop, and the music takes over again.

“How strange to find you here,” Liam says.

Zayn doesn’t look beside him, where Liam is slinking to. Their arms almost touch—Zayn brings it over his chest protectively.

“I’m surprised, too,” Zayn says. “I planned to hole myself in my room all day. This is Harry’s doing.”

“I’m glad you’re here. There are a lot of faces here I recognise, but they’re usually soaked from head to toe and only whistle at me. Andrew and Jim are busy,” Liam says, chuckling.

“You’re the only one here I actually know.”

Zayn looks over to him. Liam’s hair is combed into a simple style, and his beard has been trimmed since they last saw one another. His shirt is, surprisingly and very conservatively, closed to the second-to-last button—not that Zayn was looking. He looks delightful, and Zayn has to look away again.

“Me, too. I gave up on trying to count the stars a while ago,” he says. “Do you want a drink?”

“I don’t drink,” Liam says.

“No, I know—” Zayn stops himself. “I meant, like, an orange juice, or something.”

“Only if it’s in a cute, little carton,” Liam says.

Zayn laughs, and Liam, too.

Then, he says, “I’ll go check the fridge.”

“I’ll wait right here.”

 

— + —

 

The sand is surprisingly cold beneath toes, to say the sun only set an hour ago. He holds his shoes in his hands. Liam is doing the same beside him, walking not too far away. The moonlight shines out against the water, though the clouds move too fast across the sky to promise it’s constant light.

“This was a good idea,” Zayn hums.

“I do this often,” Liam says. “The air gets cooler down here at night. And the sound of the waves is always peaceful.”

Zayn smiles to himself. “You like the sea?”

“I love the sea, the water. I always have. I used to be clung to my swimming pool when I was younger. My parents moved to a new house when I was eight, ten minutes away from a beach. I’d go down there every day. Then, one day, I found an old surfboard and decided to try, was terrible at it, of course. A man approached me, asked me if I wanted to learn, and I did,” Liam says. “When I was eighteen, I became a lifeguard. The rest is… well, right here.”

“You’ve lived here that long?” Zayn asks.

“Since I was twenty-one.”

“And now you’re…”

“Twenty-seven.”

Zayn looks down to the sand, the prints his feet are leaving behind. “Don’t you ever get bored? Just sitting there.”

“When I get a view as beautiful as this?” Liam points out into the sea. “Very few people are so lucky.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Zayn says. “If the view doesn’t terrify you.”

Liam laughs lowly. “Why does it scare you so much? I admit, it can be daunting.”

“An unknown abyss that covers over half the earth,” Zayn says. “I would call it daunting.”

“You’re right, it is. But once you can see the beauty in it…” Liam shakes his head. “I sound like a love-sick fool for the sea.”

“No, it’s…”

Zayn looks to Liam, at his smile and the subtle happiness on his face. He looks to the sky that is an inky and sparkling canvas of stars he wouldn’t usually be able to see in the middle of the city. He looks out into the ocean that stares, gleamingly, at him, the waves threatening to touch his toes as they walk along the shore.

He supposes, if he looks hard enough, Zayn could see the beguile of it. If he was someone who sought new adventures or uninhibited freedom, he might even treasure it. He might be able to look out over the water and catch tears in his eyes or find himself in love with the view. But his soul is awake in a way that differs from Liam, and seeks something other. Like the must of old books, the scribble of a gentle pen along paper, the sunrise with the soft music of the birds outside in the trees. His apartment in central London, surrounded by skyscrapers and busy roads and metropolitan life.

There is something freeing out here, though; he won’t deny that. The air is lighter, and the days seem longer. Even the creases in the corners of Liam’s eyes or the lines in his forehead when he laughs seem to wither the idea of age and rejuvenate his youth. Ice that makes love to the hot days, and storms that bring in a breeze.

  
There are things here he could love.

Zayn looks to Liam, his feet stopping in the sand. It takes Liam a moment or so before he realises but walks back to face Zayn with all of his attention and, perhaps, a hint of concern.

“What is it?” Liam asks. His hand comes to rest on Zayn’s upper arm.

Zayn looks down at it and back up, his breath in a hitch. He knows it’s most likely an instinctive action, but Zayn’s tongue knots and unwinds, either way.

“It’s nothing. I…” Zayn begins, pauses. His eyes meet with Liam’s: in the night, they almost seem black, like the sky. Then he says, in a surge of uncertain courage, “I want you to teach me how to swim.”

Liam’s brows raise in surprise. “You want me to do what?”

“Teach me how to swim.” Zayn takes a breath. “You said you’ve done it before.”

“Yes, I know, but—”

“And, Harry said this was going to be the year that I start challenging myself,” he says. Zayn looks out to the ocean. “I want this holiday to be worth something. It would be my second challenge of the year, if you count coming to a new island.”

As he watches Zayn, Liam’s frown slowly becomes a smile. He’s thinking it over, Zayn can tell. And Zayn holds his breath in anticipation.

“Okay,” he finally says.

Zayn respires. “Okay.”

“If you’re sure about it,” Liam says.

Zayn nods his head. “I am.” Then, he frowns. “Well, I’m not. But there’s no point giving myself time to overthink it.”

Liam eyes roam Zayn from head to toe, with a smile Zayn knows he’s trying to suppress the full extent of. Zayn is thankful for the dim lighting, otherwise he isn’t sure he’d know what to do with himself. He swaps his shoes from one hand to the other, just for something to do in the silence. When Liam’s eyes finally leave him, they look out to the sea.

“Okay,” he says. “But I think we should start with a pool. Somewhere you can touch the ground if you need to. Somewhere that’s more closed off.”

“Thank you,” Zayn says.

“What for?” Liam asks. “I haven’t started giving you lessons yet.” He smiles and places his shoes on the sand, balancing his orange juice box inside. To Zayn’s dismay, he begins to unbutton his shirt and walk towards the sea. “C’mon.”

“What are you doing?” Zayn asks.

“Cooling off.” He looks back to Zayn. “Are you coming?”

“I don’t know if you missed the conversation we had about me being afraid of the big mass of water,” Zayn says.

“You came into the water with me yesterday.”

“You were holding my hand!”

Liam turns around, the water already at his knees. “Then, come here and I’ll hold it again,” Liam says.

 

— + —

 

Zayn takes Liam’s outward hand as he sits down at the edge of the pool. He dips his legs, the ends of his trunks dampened by the water. His eyes, as he looks to Liam, are more alarmed than they should be. He knows if he were to jump in, his head would not go below the water. But, still, the fear remains. Perhaps he thinks there is some creature at the bottom, ready to drag his legs under and take the air from his lungs: he knows this creature wouldn’t stand a chance against Liam, but that doesn’t stop that seed of uncertainty sprouting in the back of his thoughts.

“I’m beginning to think I’ve made a mistake,” Zayn says, staring down at the shimmering water.

The pool at the villa is… well, bigger than the swimming pool he had in his garden when he was a child, and in Zayn’s eyes that’s too big. The sun is high but not yet at it’s peak,  
shining down onto the pool. It hurts Zayn’s eyes if he stares too long, and when he does, he finds his eyes on Liam for respite.

Zayn watches as Liam swims slowly across the water, almost gliding on the surface. His arms move with precision, the muscles growing taught and relaxing back, and, somehow, with a magic Zayn has never been able to understand, he’s floating.

“How do you do that?” he asks.

“Float?” Liam says. “It’s pretty easy. You just have to make sure that your arms and legs are moving at the same time in order to stay afloat or remain in the same place. You want to try it?”

“Yes,” Zayn says. He appends, “But I’m scared.”

“Of what?” Liam asks.

“What if I can’t float?”

As soon as Zayn asks the question, his eyes turn down to his shorts, to the bones of his knees.

“Well, if you can’t float, then your feet will touch the ground. That’s why we’re starting in a swimming pool, remember?” Liam says. His tone, as if understanding, is soft.

“I know that,” he says.

The water wades in gentle waves at his knees. When he looks up, Liam is beside him, his feet on the ground, his arm resting on the side of the pool. Zayn notices a tattoo on the back of Liam’s shoulder that he didn’t before.

“Do you want to start with floating?” Liam asks. “It’s easier than swimming. A good starting point actually. So, at least, if you accidentally fall into water, you’ll know the movements of your arms to climb back to the surface. And to be able to keep you afloat until help comes.”

Zayn bites his lip, hesitant. “It’s easier?”

“Yeah. Honestly, it’s just in the movements of your arms.” He holds his hand out again, water dripping onto Zayn’s shorts.

Zayn takes his hand, even though he doesn’t need to: they’re in the shallow end, and with one small hop, Zayn is in the pool, the water reaching just above his thighs. Liam smiles at him.

“Not so bad, huh?” he says.

Zayn nods. His heart begins to pound un-accordingly to the situation. It’s a pool, he’s been in pools deeper than this back home. There’s no reason for his chest to be so erratic, his fingers, although wet from the water of Liam’s hand, clammy and slightly cold.

Liam slowly brings him farther into the deeper end of the pool, asking at intervals if Zayn is still okay, to which he gives curt and, perhaps, insincere nods. When the water is up to Zayn’s chest and his breathing becomes shallow, as if he were running, he feet stubbornly disagree to go any further. Liam stops with him, their hands still together.

“Are you okay?” Liam asks.

“Yeah.” Zayn gives a small smile. “What—what do I do?”

“Let’s just give it a minute or so, let you get used to the weight of the water,” Liam says.

Zayn nods. “Okay.”

It feels like more than a minute when Liam eventually moves. He winds his hands around Zayn’s waist. It’s a non-sexual act that makes Zayn’s skin flush, nonetheless. Because  
Liam’s touch is so soft, and he’s never seen such a kindness in anyone but a vulnerable, drunken Harry.

“I’m just going to pull you down, slightly,” Liam says.

He bends his knees, so the water reaches to just underneath his chin. The hold on Zayn’s waist encourages him to do the same, which he complies to with hesitancy babbling and making strange noises of anxiety on his tongue.

It’s okay, Liam murmurs at one point, when the panic of Zayn’s hands draws water into his mouth.

Liam lets go to make a movement with his arms. “Do this with your arms, okay? Practise the movement, wade the water away from you.”

Zayn imitates Liam as best as he can, which he surmises, from the grin on Liam’s face, which emulates back onto his own, is good. It’s not that bad, he thinks, even though if he forgets to breath deep enough, he feels like he’s suffocating.

“What do I do, now?” Zayn asks.

“Eager?” Liam teases. “Now, we need to work on your feet. Watch my feet as best as you can,” he says.

Zayn watches the blurry image of his legs underneath the water. “They’re just kicking,” he says.

“Yes, that’s true. And it really is that easy.” He laughs. “If you kick your legs in random directions, you won’t keep the force that your movements are making in the right place, and you’ll sink,” he says, and gives an example. Zayn almost reaches out for him when his head begins to dip below the water, but Liam picks himself back up. “You want to keep your legs together, but with enough space between so you can kick them freely. The current you make in the water will keep you afloat. Almost like a little cloud below you that stops  
you from falling.”

“Okay,” Zayn says with a shaky breath.

Liam’s hands come back to their firm and familiar place on Zayn’s waist, where they squeeze to let Zayn know he’s ready. He trusts Liam, he can do this.

He’s mid-motion of letting his knees fall from underneath him when his brain decides it’s a good idea to question what he’s doing. Instead of finding his balance, he drops, so his mouth is covered by the water, and his feet, instead of finding a firm hold on the floor of the pool, slip from underneath him, and his whole head goes underwater.

Liam is quick to bring him back to the surface, trying to calm a spluttering Zayn. His arms are wild and find a grip on Liam, where they don’t let go. He’s holding on to Liam too harshly—the welts of Zayn’s fingernails evidence when he changes his grip—but he can’t help himself. If he lets go, he’s afraid he might go under again. His throat burns from choking on water. 

“Zayn,” Liam says in a calming voice, “you’re hyperventilating. Take a breath, you’re okay. It’s just a bit of water.”

Zayn takes a deep breath, the next one even deeper. He holds his head up to the sky in fear more water will get into his mouth. He takes another breath, even though it’s difficult and the air scrapes his throat.

“I need to—I need to get out,” he says. His breath still hasn’t caught up with him, and only now is he finding his footing in the water. “I need to get out, Liam. I can’t breathe.”

“Okay,” Liam says, “okay. C’mon, I’ll help you.”

Liam readjusts his arms, so one remains in a strong grip around Zayn’s waist and the other helps wade them through the water. Instead of clinging to Liam, his arms are frantic in the water, trying to paddle out as fast as he can to get to the edge. Liam is still firmly behind him as they climb the steps out of the pool, and rubs Zayn’s back as he leans to the ground to take deep breaths.

“I changed my mind,” Zayn says, shaking his head. “I can’t do this.”

“Zayn, c’mon. Don’t say that. Just take a few deep breaths and calm down,” Liam says.

Zayn is still shaking his head. He straightens his back and wriggles out of Liam’s hold. “No. I can’t do it,” his voice is weak as he speaks. Humiliation tinges his cheeks to rubies. “It was a stupid idea. I shouldn’t have even tried. I shouldn’t have let Harry put the idea into my head.”

“No,” Liam says. “Zayn, it’s a good thing. You’re trying to learn something new. Nothing hardly ever works the first time, and no one is ever perfect at something at first try. Don’t put yourself down.”

A reassuring hand rests itself on Zayn’s shoulder, but Zayn pushes it away. He puts a few more steps between himself and Liam, so Liam can’t touch him again. Zayn can’t even bring himself to turn around and look at him. Even his eyes have been soaked by the pool.

“I’m sorry for wasting your time, Liam,” he says. “But… I can’t.”

Zayn makes his way back to the house. His clothes, as he enters, are still dripping wet and leave a trail of water along the marble. Liam is following closely behind, trying to comfort him and persuade him to rethink it. But he’s made up his mind. 

The embarrassment he feels so deep in his bones will rattle him for days, make him restless in his sleep, haunt him until it stops him leaving his bedroom altogether. How is he going to look at Liam again, when Liam saw him in such a pathetic state?

Harry stands from the settee in the living area when he notices a dripping wet Zayn storming back into the house. Zayn is sure there are already tears mixing with the chlorine water on his face, his red eyes giving him away, and so he does his best to not look at Harry. But Harry, like Liam, is persistent—in more so of an intrusive way.

“Hey,” he says, concern in his voice, “what happened?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Zayn says. He wants to walk faster, but he might slip on the tiles, and he can’t cause himself any more embarrassment.

“On the contrary, talking about it is very helpful,” Harry says.

“You’re not a shrink, Harry,” Zayn snaps. “Please, leave me alone.”

Zayn enters the first bathroom that he sees, which happens to be the furthest one from his bedroom. He curses himself. Again, another decision he couldn’t help but make awfully. He locks the door behind him and presses his back to the door. It doesn’t take long for Harry to knock on the door, to even try to jiggle the door handle to try and come in, but it won’t budge. Zayn doesn’t respond.

His heart races like there is ecstasy in his veins, his hands are shaking like a high. And his eyes wonder recklessly as they glare at everything in the room, trying to find something for his eyes to latch on to, to help him calm down. He takes a breath. Another. Then, as he hears voices from the other room, he halts his breathing entirely to listen. 

It’s just muffles, that’s all he can hear. Harry’s deep tone, and Liam’s soft, vibrating inflection. Zayn’s hand hesitates on the lock before he slides it open, as quietly as he can. The door handle, as it opens, is silent, Zayn’s feet on the floor even quieter as he pads through the hallway. His heartbeat is still a drum in his ears, but his desire to hear what they are speaking about—although he already knows full well the spotlight of topic—is greater in the moment than trying to calm himself down.

Zayn pauses when he’s just around the corner from the living area, pressing his back to the wall so neither Liam nor Harry will be able to see him.

“He’s always been like this,” he hears Harry say. “There’s a constant anxiety in every situation. But with the things he has true fears for, it hits the roof.”

“He doesn’t look like a man who likes coming to far-away islands and getting hammered,” Liam says. “He looks very…”

“Nerdy?” Harry finishes.

“Bookish,” Liam corrects.

“He loves books. A little too much. He uses them to hide away from the world and forget his problems. Which is fine, until you realise you haven’t left your apartment in nearly a week and you’ve forgotten how to respond to someone at a checkout because your social skills have withered away,” Harry says.

Zayn scoffs under his breath, then worries he’s been too loud. He takes a step back, just in case.

“I’m trying to get him more out of his shell,” Harry continues. “But, whilst I’m trying, he’s stubborn.”

“Changing habits isn’t easy,” Liam says.

“I know that.” Harry sighs. “No doubt, he’ll hole himself up in his room for the rest of the time we’re here. It takes a while for him to recover from things, more so than the average person. If it takes someone a week to recover from something, it takes Zayn four. That’s what his anxiety does. I’m just… I want him to try new things. I want him to see the world. And, I can’t deny that, in part, it’s selfish. I want my best friend to experience all the things that I do, share the fun with me. I didn’t mean for this to happen.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Liam says. “It wasn’t anyone’s fault. Especially not Zayn’s. Things like that can’t be predicted. He was brave to even try. I don’t know what I’d do if I stepped on land for the first time if I’d spent my life swimming.”

“That’s… a nice way of putting it,” Harry mumbles.

“When you see him again, tell him I’m not judging him. And if he changes his mind, I’m always at the beach. You’re all welcome, any time,” Liam says.

“Will do.”

“And I’m sorry about the water,” Liam says, laughing. “I’ll have to dry off on the beach.”

“Don’t worry about it. It’s just some water,” Harry says.

The front door shuts not long after. Zayn doesn’t bother moving as he hears Harry’s footsteps rounding the corner. When Harry sees him, he pauses, sighs, and leans against the wall. His eyes are sympathetic. Zayn can’t stand the pity, not now.

“Were you—”

“Yes.” 

“It’s okay, Zayn.”

“Is it?”

“Yes. Of course it is,” Harry says.

“How many other twenty-six-year-olds do you know that can’t swim?” Zayn asks.

“I don’t personally know any. But that doesn’t mean they don’t exist,” Harry says. “I have friends who can’t step on a jet. I know people who don’t know how to read and write. I don’t know about you, but I’d say knowing how to read and write is much more important to know, and even more embarrassing not to know, than not knowing how to swim.” He adds, “No judgment on anyone at all. And there’s especially no judgment on you. You’re my friend, Zayn.”

“I know,” Zayn mumbles. His foot taps on the ground.

There’s a quiet. Zayn can almost hear the water from his clothes drip on the floor.

“He likes you, you know,” Harry says. “I see him whenever I stop by. He’s a nice guy.”

“I’m sure he is,” Zayn says. “I’m never going to be able to show my face to him again.”

“Zayn, don’t be—” Harry begins, then pauses to rethink his words as Zayn looks to him. “It’s really not that bad. How many people do you think he’s saved from the ocean? I’m sure they’re babbling and panicking and screaming.”

“It’s a sea,” Zayn mutters.

“What?

“It’s a sea. Not an ocean.”

“Well, you know what I mean. And Liam, he isn’t—he’s not going to judge you. You were stood here, you heard him yourself. He isn’t judging you. I’m sure he didn’t expect you to have the swimming skill of an Olympic athlete the first time you got into the water,” Harry says. “If you could swim—”

“I can’t,” Zayn says. The pity in his tone is inundating.

“If you could swim,” Harry begins again, “would you judge someone else for not being able to swim as much as you’re judging yourself? As much as you think Liam is judging you?”

Zayn fiddles with his fingers and looks down—at anywhere but Harry.

“No,” he eventually mutters.

“So, maybe think about that whilst you stand there and be too critical of yourself,” Harry says. He hooks his fingers under Zayn’s jaw and tickles his chin. Zayn slaps him away. “How about a quiet night in?”

“I would have thought you’d have a party to go to, some people to get off with,” Zayn says.

“Well, those are plans that can easily be cancelled,” Harry says. “C’mon. Go and change out of those wet clothes. They’re playing Friends on TV. And I think we have some popcorn.”

“I hate Friends,” Zayn says.

“I know. But it’s better than staring at the wall for the rest of the evening,” Harry says. “And I promise I won’t get naked, even though it’s insanely hot.”

Zayn almost smiles. He takes a deep breath. “I don’t believe you.”

Harry laughs. “You’d be right not to.”

 

— + —

 

Zayn spends the next few days wallowing and reading his book—which Harry allows, as long as he spends an hour outside everyday to get some sun. Which is a good idea, until you fall asleep on the beach, with the blazing sun on your skin. He wakes up with peeled shoulders and a sore nose, but, after a moment of panic, realises he doesn’t have heatstroke because a parasol has—seemingly—blown above his chair and kept his head away from the sun. Then he realises, with little inspection, the parasol has been wedged into the sand to sit perfectly above him. He doesn’t find out who placed it there.

On Wednesday, Harry convinces Zayn to do a shot with him. And another. Four, he surmises, is enough, and he heads back to his room, which sways as he lays down on the bed. Harry laughs at him for being so lightweight, but really, he’s fine. Harry doesn’t know that Zayn used to drink more in an hour than Harry does in a night when he was in university. His stomach is just empty.

Four shots, he re-evaluates the morning after, are not the same as they used to be and were not worth the headache. A headache which, as Harry claps him on the shoulders as he walks into the kitchen, only gets worse.

“Take some ibuprofen,” Harry says.

“I have,” Zayn grumbles.

“Then you need something greasy.”

Zayn shakes his head, grimacing. “Not right now.”

“It was four shots.”

“It was four jaeger bombs, and I had a beer,” Zayn says. “I haven’t drunk that much in years.”

“I’m glad you did.”

“I’m not,” Zayn says. “It was not worth it.”

“You’ll feel better after. If you want, there’s some nurofen in my bag. Just take what you need,” Harry says. He pours himself some coffee, glancing back over his shoulder at Zayn, who sits at one of the stools at the island. “So, when are you going to see Liam again?”

“What?” Zayn says. He frowns and he groans. “I’m not doing this right now. My head can’t take it.”

“It’s a one word answered question, Zayn.”

“Which are the most difficult questions to answer because that one word counts for everything,” Zayn says.

“You can say all that, but—”

“I don’t know, Harry. Okay? I don’t know if I’m going to see him again. I—we’ve been over this.” Zayn sighs and rests his head against the work surface. “My head feels like it’s in a vice.”

“I told you, Zayn. He’s not judging you.”

“It’s not that,” Zayn says. “It’s how I’m judging myself.”

“Too harshly, I’ll add,” Harry says. “Just to let you know, you’re the only one holding yourself to this judgment. No one else is.”

“What about Jim and that other guy?” Zayn asks. “They laughed when they found out I couldn’t swim.”

“Because they’re close-minded, and they should have minded their own business.” Harry sips on his coffee and leans against the counter.

Zayn tilts his head so he can peer up at him. “If it wasn’t me sat there, you’d probably have laughed, too.”

“No, I wouldn’t. Well, perhaps I would have held back a smile,” Harry admits. “But I wouldn’t have…” he shakes his head. “You’ve taught me a lot, Zayn.”

“About?” he asks.

Harry shrugs. “Compassion. Humility. Trying to wrap my understanding around how your mind works has opened my own. I look at people now and it’s easier for me to see what other people are feeling. I look at someone and, sometimes, I see your face, and I realise they’re worried, or panicking. It’s helped me understand the signs in other people, too, not just in you. And… it really can affect anyone. I see it even in myself, now that I understand what it is. It’s frightening. But I appreciate that my world-view has been extended. That wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t have met you. We all have our own issues,” he says. Quietly, he adds, “I wouldn’t have laughed.”

Zayn’s eyes glance over Harry. Fidgeting fingers, fleeting eyes. He sips at his coffee even though it’s still far too hot to drink—though some would call it sacrilege to even drink coffee in a climate as warm as this. It’s not very often that Zayn gets to see Harry being completely and emotionally honest; that Harry unveils himself behind the mask which, to Zayn now, having known Harry so long, is, to his eyes, translucent on the best of days.

Zayn’s lips appear in a slow smile. “Harry?” he says.

Harry looks up. “Yes?”

“That’s really nice.”

Harry breaths out a laugh and averts his eyes. “Shut up.”

Zayn rolls his fingers around in circles on the worktop and closes his eyes. His shoulders burn underneath his shirt. He’s sure he can still feel the alcohol swimming in his system, even though he probably sweat it out in the night. How is Harry drinking hot coffee? The air is humid, and Zayn feels like he can’t take a breath. At least the counter is cool on his skin.

“I probably should talk to him, shouldn’t I?” Zayn says.

“I would say so. There’s something… unresolved stirring in the air between you. It’s awkward,” Harry says. “I saw him yesterday. He asked about you.”

Zayn sits up, to Harry’s humour. His head spins from the fast movement. “He did?”

He nods. “I told him you didn’t have a great day. He almost looked guilty.”

“But what happened wasn’t his fault,” Zayn says, frowning.

Zayn could see why, if he looks at it. If he views it from a moderately difficult angle, he can almost see the exact thought. Liam thinking it was his fault because his grip on Zayn was not strong enough to stop him from going under. But Liam couldn’t have predicted that Zayn’s grip on the tiles would be lost, and Liam pulled him from the water as quickly as he could.

Liam isn’t a superman, though he might have the muscle for it. Why would he be so harsh on himself? It was a situation neither of them could have controlled, just like if it had started raining or the sky bringing in clouds to dull a happy day. Zayn’s shoulders deflate. As a lifeguard, Liam has most likely saved lives. Can’t he see how incredible he is?

He looks to Harry. “I’ve been a little bit dramatic, haven’t I?”

Harry tilts his head. “No,” he says after a moment of thought. “I think you perhaps could have handled the situation better. But don’t belittle how you were feeling. It was a scary situation for you.”

Zayn bites his lip. “I should speak to him. But I’m…”

“You don’t need to be embarrassed. If you think he’s the type of person to criticise you for something you can’t control, then—” Harry shrugs. “Well, you don’t know him. But you know what I mean.”

Zayn rests his chin in his palm and releases a sigh that is almost relieved. “You think he likes me?”

“Yes,” Harry replies with confidence. “But before you go and see him, drink some water and eat something. And maybe take a shower.”

“I don’t even know where to find him.”

“Yes,” Harry says, “you do.”

 

— + —

 

Zayn isn’t sure whether he likes the sand. It’s difficult to walk on, even in shoes. He prefers a pavement, a concrete platform underneath his feet when he knows this step to the next. In this, his feet just sink, and he has to pick them up faster. His calves feel weak from not eating enough and his hands are already sweaty from the heat. Or, perhaps, some other factors—like the idea of Liam pushing him away. He’s sure that Liam has other, much more gratifying things (or people) to spend his time on than a feeble, uncertain boy who never learnt how to swim.

He makes the girls’ cry. And he makes the boys’ scream.

The sound of the waves hitting the shore is a type of inhibitor that calms his nerves, which, to be expected, spark to a summit when he spots Liam, perched on the tall lifeguard  
chair in the middle of the beach. The sun is setting and painting the sky a renaissance classic of burnt colours. His shift should be ending soon.

Each foot is heavier than the next. He’s wearing flip-flops, but the sand feels as though it’s swallowing his feet whole. He’s halfway across the beach when Liam looks over to him. At the double-take, Zayn looks away, down to his feet, where the sand laughs at him. He hears the drop of Liam’s feet onto the beach, his little jump from his chair. His eyes are bright but cautious, his apparent attention on the sea being swept away completely at Zayn’s presence.

He really does feel guilty, Zayn thinks.

“Hi,” Zayn says.

“Hi,” Liam says. His tone is soft and unsure—a jolt of surprise to Zayn. “What are you…” he begins, then pauses. His gaze is caught on Zayn. “Do you want to take a walk?”

“Aren’t you on duty?” Zayn asks.

Liam does a take over the beach. “There’s only a few people here. I’m sure they’ll be fine. My shift ends in a few minutes, anyway.”

“Yeah,” Zayn says after a breath, “sure.”

They’re halfway down the beach before Zayn plucks up the courage to speak. The only consolation he finds is that Liam is silent, too. Maybe he’s trying to give him space.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Zayn says. “What happened. I just… slipped.”

Liam shakes his head. “I wish I was more careful, that’s all.”

“You were. You were very thoughtful. Even though I went under, I still felt safe. I just went into defence mode,” Zayn says.

Liam is quiet for a moment. The waves fill in the quiet and keep the silence at bay.

“It reminded me of when I go out to sea, to help people who are drowning. Sometimes, if they’re panicking, they slip off the board and go back under. And I have to try and find them again. Sometimes, it feels like I won’t, like they’re just a rock that has sank all the way to the bottom,” Liam says. His voice, though explaining some deep worry, is calm. He looks to Zayn. “I tried to grab you, before you went under, but I didn’t catch you in time. And I knew you’d be panicking.”

Zayn stops and turns to Liam. He rests his hand on Liam’s arm in reassurance. He feels like he’s almost been blind. The last few days, he’s only thought about himself. He didn’t even take into account how Liam felt, not until Harry pointed it out to him.

“You didn’t do anything wrong, Liam,” Zayn says. “I’m glad you were there. I’m glad it was you in the pool with me.”

“I told you, you wouldn’t be in safer hands,” Liam says. “And you slipped.”

Zayn looks down at himself and back to Liam. “Am I alive? Did I survive?”

Liam smiles. “Yes.”

“So you still kept me safe,” he says. Zayn drops his hand down to his other, fingers meddling together to keep the nerves at bay. When he continues to walk, Liam follows.

“Don’t blame yourself. These things happen. “And all of those people that slipped, you saved them, too?”

Liam doesn’t answer. He only bitterly smiles. No, a grimace. It’s not directed at Zayn, or the sand, or the sky. Not even to the sea. More at himself.

Oh.

Zayn lets there be a moment of quiet, because he feels like that’s what Liam needs. When he looks over to Liam again, Zayn sees a colour with a new dimension; a shade that helps shed more light onto an angle that was hidden before.

“Well, you saved me. Even if it was from a pool,” Zayn says.

Liam grins. “A pool that wasn’t even two meters deep.”

“Okay, don’t push it,” Zayn teases, to which they both laugh. “I think… I’d like to try again.”

“Are you sure?” Liam asks.

“Yeah,” Zayn replies. “New heights, remember?”

“I don’t want you to push yourself, if it’s too much.”

“It’s not. I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t feel okay with it.” Zayn looks to Liam. “I want to.”

Liam’s face riddles with uncertainty. Zayn can see the cog that turns in his mind to formulate an answer. Zayn looks down to his hands, which bare empty and so fiddle with themselves. Maybe he should have bought something with him. Flowers? He shakes his head.

“Okay,” Liam finally says. “But only if you wear a jacket.”

“What, like a floaty jacket?” Zayn asks. “No way.”

“It’s either that or arm bands. Whichever one you want, it’s up to you,” Liam says.

“But… children wear those,” Zayn says.

“Yes, and children learn how to swim. You never did.” Liam bumps his shoulder into Zayn’s. “C’mon, it won’t be that bad. It’ll just be you and me. There’s no reason to be embarrassed about it.”

“Not being able to swim is embarrassing,” Zayn mutters.

“I have taught six-year-old boys how to swim, and I have taught their sixty-year-old grandad’s to swim. There is nothing to be embarrassed about. You’re only, what, twenty-five?”

“Twenty-six.”

“You’re young. Better to learn now than when you’re forty years older,” Liam says.

“I suppose that’s one way to look at it.”

“I don’t know how to drive,” Liam says.

Zayn looks to him, surprised. “You don’t?”

“No. And, in my opinion, it’s much more embarrassing for someone who lives on land to not know how to drive, than it is for you to not know how to swim. Maybe if you were a fish.”

“But you can still walk,” Zayn says. “Or someone could still drive you.”

“That’s true. But there was a time when none of us could walk. And it’s not like you have to swim everywhere all the time,” Liam replies.

“I guess you’re right.”

“I know I’m right. So, when do you want to start again?”

Zayn hums quietly to himself. He doesn’t know. Why didn’t he think of an answer to that before he started the conversation?

In a rush, he says, “Today?”

“It’s getting dark,” Liam says in a laugh.

Zayn looks out to the sky, where the stars are bringing themselves slowly in. “Right,” he says, cursing himself.

“How about tomorrow?” Liam says. “I have a morning shift on the beach, but I could meet you after that. If that’s fine with you?”

“I’m not doing anything, so, yeah. It should be fine.” Zayn nods. “Are you going to bring a jacket?”

“Yes, Zayn.”

Zayn bites his lip, but blurts out, anyway, “Can we just try one more time without—”

“No.”

 

— + —

 

Zayn rests his feet on the bottom of the pool with a sigh. His legs are tired, and his arms ache, too. The bottoms of his fingers are pruned for being in the water so long and, despite the warm weather, he’s getting cold. Liam stares at him with a determined expression, though Zayn can see he’s frustrated—nowhere near tired.

“I think we should take a break,” Zayn says.

“We took a break ten minutes ago,” Liam points out.

“I mean, we should take an extended break and try again tomorrow.” Zayn slowly wades into a shallower part of the pool. “I feel like the more I try, the more I can’t do it.”

“That’s because you’re getting impatient with yourself,” Liam says.

“And you’re not?”

“Getting impatient with myself?”

“With me.”

“Oh.” Liam frowns. “No, of course not. Maybe a little at the situation, but not at you. It’s not your fault you can’t get the hang of it.”

“Then whose fault is it?” Zayn asks.

“No one’s. Everyone goes at their own pace,” Liam says.

“It’s been three days,” Zayn says. “I still can’t do it.”

“Don’t be hard on yourself, Zayn. You’re not just overcoming a physical obstacle. It’s something bigger than that,” he says. “Are you sure you don’t want to try again?”

Liam wants him to try again—Zayn can tell from his tone. But he’s not going to push it; he doesn’t want to make Zayn uncomfortable.

He almost smiles. “No, I don’t think so. My legs are tired.”

“Okay,” Liam says.

When they get to the edge of the pool, Liam helps Zayn jump onto the side, a hand just under his thigh to steady him. Zayn unbuckles his jacket, and Liam grabs them both their towels, and they sit on the chairs to the side of the pool, bathing in the sun.

Zayn stands up to get a drink. “Orange juice?” he says to Liam.

Liam glances over to him, hand covering his eyes for shade. “Actually, I was thinking of a glass of coke and lemon.”

“You’re getting brave,” Zayn teases.

Harry follows Zayn into the kitchen. He skulks about, watching, until Zayn asks him what he wants.

“I just wanted to see how it was going,” he says.

“You know how it’s going. You were watching out the window the whole time,” Zayn says.

“You saw me?”

“You weren’t exactly difficult to miss.”

“I just—”

Zayn pulls two glasses from the cupboard. “You were being nosy.”

“Maybe,” Harry says. “I just didn’t know if there was anything other than swimming going on there. That’s all.”

Zayn almost spills the coke out of the glass.

“What?” he asks, surprised. Although, he’s not. Harry comes to these conclusions all the time. And, well, Zayn would be lying if he said the only time he’d thought about it was when he was wondering if Harry had noticed anything, too. “If there was, you know I’d probably tell you. I can’t keep stuff like that to  
myself.”

“Probably,” Harry mutters. “You should ask him out.”

Zayn drops a wedge of lemon into each glass. “Harry, I’m not going to do that.”

“Why not?”

“Because…” Zayn thinks about it, his eyes zoning in on the ice as it crackles in the glasses. “He’s Liam.”

“You know it’s just a saying?” Harry says. “He’s friendly. So people think he fucks everyone.”

“Does he?”

“Has he fucked you?” Harry asks.

Blood rushes to Zayn’s face. He shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter, anyway. I’m on holiday. We’ll only be here for a few more days.”

“Exactly. Your time is limited,” Harry says, leaning on the counter. “Just ask him to dinner. I’ll join you, if you like. Make it seem like more of a natural thing. We can order in and watch a film. I think there might even be a monopoly set upstairs.”

“I don’t know,” Zayn says. “He might be busy.”

“Just ask him, Zayn. You never know if you don’t try.”

Zayn carries the drinks out with nervous hands. Holding them tighter than he should, he’s curious as to whether the glass could break.

Ask him out. It’s not that difficult. Unless your heart feels like it’s in your throat and you can’t take a deep enough breath to formulate cohesive sound for your words. What if he says no? That would be tragic. Although, Zayn has learnt enough over the last few days to know Liam wouldn’t stop giving him lessons just because it got a little awkward. He’s too good of a guy to treat Zayn like that.

Though, the more Zayn thinks about it, the less he’s sure, in this situation, it’s a good thing—if he was rejected, he probably wouldn’t want to hear Liam’s name again.

“Thank you,” Liam says as Zayn hands him the glass.

“You’re welcome.”

They both stand in the quiet, sipping their drinks. Liam looks out to the view, a vast landscape of sea covered partially by the villa’s trimmed bushes. Zayn’s eyes wash over Liam like a wave. His skin is dry and he’s stripped of the towel. Under the sunlight, his skin looks like a toffee. Delicious, he thinks as an afterthought, but shakes his head to himself.

“Liam—” Zayn begins to say.

“Do you like fairgrounds?”

Zayn’s brows softly deepen. “What?”

“There’s a fairground about half an hour from here. They open it for a few weeks in the summer, usually when the weather is at it’s best,” he says. Liam looks to Zayn, the sweet diffidence in his eyes betraying his calm voice. “Do you want to go?”

“Oh,” Zayn breathes. “When?”

Liam shrugs. “Today, if you want. I think we’re done with the pool.”

“Yeah. I think so, too.”

A fairground? The fondness in Zayn’s chest swells.

“I haven’t been to a fairground since I was younger,” Zayn says. His tone, as he remembers all those childhood memories, is soft and nostalgic.

“Let me take you, then,” Liam says. “I’ve never been, so technically you’d be taking me, too.”

“You don’t have to be on the beach?” Zayn asks.

“I swapped my shift around this morning,” Liam says.

Zayn smiles. “You knew you were going to ask me this morning?”

“Actually, I’ve been trying to pluck up the courage to ask you for days,” Liam confesses. He takes a gulp of his drink. If Zayn was confident enough, he’d swear Liam’s cheeks turn a sweet shade of rhubarb.

“That’s adorable,” Zayn says softly.

Liam laughs. He lowers his head and then raises it to look at Zayn. “So, what do you think?”

“I think that sounds really nice,” Zayn says. “Do they have cotton candy?”

“I’m not sure. We could find out together,” Liam replies.

“Okay.” Zayn grins, and it makes his jaw hurt. “How are we getting there, if you can’t drive?”

“I thought we could walk. I know a way where you cross this really pretty stream,” Liam says. “I wanted to show it to you.”

“Can I bring my camera?”

“You have a camera?” Liam asks.

Zayn shrugs. “I dabble in it. I’m not very good at it, but I like capturing memories.”

Liam smiles at Zayn, rivalling his own. “Of course you do.”

When Zayn glances over to the villa, Harry is stood in the window, making no obvious attempt at hiding anymore. He’s just stood in the middle of the floor-to-ceiling windows, with his thumbs raised in curious question. Have you done it yet? He’s mouthing. Zayn puts his thumb up and shrugs—sort of. He makes sure Liam is looking the other way. Harry hollers from the villa, jumping into the air. Zayn has to make conversation again when Liam looks over with curious eyes. Harry jumps from sight.

 

— + —

 

For the first half an hour, the lights on every corner and sign give Zayn a headache, but his eyes learn to adjust, especially as dusk comes and they become one of the only sources of light to keep everything in view. It’s busy, but not too much so. They have to dodge around someone here and there or walk the long way around because of the queue for a ride, but Zayn’s heart doesn’t go overboard—not from fear, at least.

They leave from the villa at eight in the evening, after a small meal—Harry’s idea. It should take a half hour to get to the fair, but they arrive at nine. Apparently, Zayn is a slow walker. Liam teases Zayn about his short legs and, somewhere between Zayn’s objection and a playful shove, Liam’s hand slips into his. Zayn reminds Liam that there is only a matter of a few inches between them.

Liam hands Zayn a type of food on a stick, which Zayn sniffs and frowns at. 

“It’s fried pineapple and coconut, and they put a batter around it,” he explains.

“It looks like an American corn dog,” Zayn says.

“But it tastes so much better.”

After Zayn finishes the first one, they order another. He steals a bite of Liam’s second one, too.

Most of the time is spent walking around in each other’s company, but Zayn has a smile on his face the whole time and his jaw hurts. At some point, Liam’s hand in his becomes an arm around Zayn’s waist as they walk close together.

Liam stops at a shooting game and promises to win him the largest prize.

“They’re fish,” Zayn says as he looks at the targets. “Aren’t they supposed to be ducks?”

“You won’t see many ducks on the island, babe,” he says, before going back to shooting.

Liam has an awful shot and wins close to nothing. But the joy in Zayn’s eyes at the little octopus teddy he does win eventually infects Liam, too, once he gets over his pride. 

“Valo,” Zayn says.

Liam looks to him. “Huh?”

“That’s what I’m going to call him,” Zayn says. “Valo. It means eight.”

“Because he’s an octopus?”

“Well, aren’t you smart, Liam,” he teases.

Zayn almost drops the teddy when he realises Liam is trying to push him onto a Ferris wheel.

“It’ll be okay,” Liam says. “I’ll hold your hand the whole time.”

“Holding your hand won’t help if the whole thing falls apart,” Zayn says.

“It won’t do that. It’s perfectly fine.”

When Zayn tucks into the seat next to Liam, the wheel judders, and his hand immediately finds Liam’s, where it squeezes far too tight. Liam murmurs reassurance to him until they’re halfway up, reaching the peak of the wheel, where the view is at it’s best. And there’s something about the sea that calms him. Perhaps it’s because he knows it’s so far away. The moon is high and crescent in the sky and reminds him another day has past. Soon, he’ll be back in England, with the cold, and maybe even the snow.

Zayn doesn’t know why that thought upsets him.

“You know what I think the problem is, Zayn?” Liam says. “You think too much about what could go wrong, and not what could go right.”

Zayn laughs, though there’s no humour. “That’s what anxiety does. I try to work on it, but it’s not that easy. Actually, it’s very difficult.”

“I know that. I’m not trying to… invalidate how you feel like that,” Liam says.

“I know you’re not, Liam. Don’t worry,” Zayn reassures.

“I just think, sometimes, you have to try and weight out what’s best. Would you rather watch the sun come down and be afraid of the dark, or would you rather wake up to the sunrise and greet the day?”

Zayn looks to Liam with a quizzical expression. “That was very deep.”

Liam smiles. “I was bullied in high school. A lot of anxiety came with it.”

Zayn turns in his seat, so he’s facing Liam more. “I’m sorry.”

“What for?”

“I didn’t know.”

“How were you supposed to know? You’re not psychic,” Liam says, laughing. “It’s okay, now. I’m happy. I’m free of those types of burdens.” Liam’s attention is solely on Zayn. Not on the view, on the screaming children below. On him. Squeezing Zayn’s hand, he says, quietly, “That’s how I know you will be, too.”

Zayn is unable to keep eye contact, but his smile is unmistakable and tooth-bitten. His chest contracts and then lets in a wide sweep of the evening air, cooling slowly with the evening.

“I think that’s the most psychological thing someone has ever said to me on a date,” Zayn says.

“Oh, I can’t take ownership of that one. It’s just something my therapist said to me when I was younger,” he says.

Liam has a cheeky grin on his face as Zayn looks over.

Zayn punches his arm lightly. “You couldn’t even think of something original?”

“I bought you to a westernised fairground on a foreign island, thousand miles from home,” Liam says. “Is that not original?”

Zayn shakes his head, lips wide in attraction. “Yes, it is.”

He doesn’t see Liam’s lips coming toward his cheek, doesn’t have time to act, at least. But they’re on his cheek, and they’re warm, and they leave Zayn’s skin tingling with happiness and something more maroon in colour as the realisation settles in. Liam just kissed him.

Liam doesn’t lean all the way back. He stays close to Zayn’s ear, his hot breath fanning over Zayn’s neck.

“For the corn dog,” he says. “You ate half of it, remember?”

“Right,” Zayn says in a flustered breath.

In a moment of unprecedented bravery, Zayn turns his head and kisses Liam. It’s supposed to be his cheek, except it’s not because Liam didn’t move away, and their lips meet in the middle instead. The panic sets in, but Liam is already kissing back and, well… it feels good. Really good. Zayn doesn’t remember the last time he’s done this with someone who was actually a good kisser.

Zayn pulls away—not because he wants to but because he’s out of breath. Liam even lets out his own little gasp when the air sweeps between them.

“As a thank you, for bringing me here. I love it,” Zayn says.

“You’re welcome,” Liam says. He strokes Zayn’s fringe away from his forehead and drops his hand back down to Zayn’s. “See? You forgot all about the height.”

“Well, now I remember.”

“But you’re still safe.”

Zayn bites his lip, and Liam kisses him again. Once, just quickly. But Zayn’s heart still skips a beat. They smile at one another, a known and yet strange cloud of happiness floating above them. Zayn cuddles his head into Liam’s shoulder. Liam wraps his arm around Zayn.

“Yeah,” Zayn says, “I guess I am.”

 

— + —

 

Zayn takes so many photos on the way back to the villa that the journey takes twice as long as it did before. He thinks his shots of Liam are good enough to be hidden, but Liam snatches the camera from him and, giving Zayn time to cover his face, takes a photo and asks him if he likes it. Which, of course, if he’s talking about Liam’s attention, then yes, he does.

“Thank you for tonight,” Zayn says, as they walk back onto the beach. “I enjoyed it.”

“Yeah, me too.”

“How many other people have you taken to a fairground to win over?” Zayn seriocomically jokes. His smile doesn’t last long.

“None,” Liam replies, with such a surety that Zayn can really have no doubt. He takes Zayn’s hand in his. “You’re the only one.”

Zayn looks down to the sand—it’s easier to. “It was the most thoughtful date I’ve been on.” He squeezes the teddy. “And now I own an octopus, which is a first.”

“Treat him well.”

“He has seven feet, by the way. I should have called him Septimus,” Zayn says.

“I like Valo. It sounds like a dog’s name,” Liam says.

Zayn laughs. “A dog’s name? Well, now it’s an octopus name, too.”

They walk a while in silence. The beach is vast and there’s still a long way to go until they reach the villa, and Zayn’s legs are aching from a day’s worth of wear, but he doesn’t mind. Liam brings him in closer, their arms entwining too. Zayn likes it here. The only thing that keeps the silence at bay is the waves sweeping gently onto the sand.

“It’s going to rain,” Liam says.

Zayn looks up to him. “How do you know that?”

“When we were leaving the fairground, the air was cool. But it’s picked back up again. It feels muggy.”

“We should walk a little faster, then,” Zayn suggests.

They don’t change their speed. If anything, they walk slower. Only a few minutes later, thunder rolls through the sky.

“How long are you staying here?”

“We go back in a few days.”

“The last few days have been some of the happiest I’ve had in a while,” Liam admits in a quiet voice.

Zayn looks up to Liam with a smile. “Me, too.”

”you know, it’s Valentine’s Day,” Liam says. 

“Is it? I didn’t even notice,” Zayn says. “This is the best Valentine’s Day gift I’ve ever had.” 

Liam stops them so he can kiss Zayn. Slow, and passionate. He presses his hands on either side of Zayn’s face, holding him in the moment. Zayn rests his hands where they seem the most natural: around Liam’s waist. They’re pulled in closer by a loud crack of thunder, their teeth clash. Zayn moans as Liam bites at his lip.

It’s strange, how life works. Five days ago, Zayn was sat in his London apartment, arguing on the phone with Harry because he really did  not want to go with him on holiday; a holiday he’d hate because he can’t stand warm weather, especially when concocted with loud music and alcohol, and the thought of going as he sat in his apartment, alone, waiting for Harry to barge in the door, caused tears to form in the corners of his eyes.

But now, he’s here, in Liam’s arms, and Liam is holding him so tight and so securely that Zayn can’t possibly believe he even doubted to come. If he hadn’t of come, he wouldn’t have met Liam. And Zayn doesn’t know what to do with that notion. He really doesn’t. Not having this? Trying to wrap his mind around it seems like an impossible feat.

The truth is, Zayn thought he was happy. He thought his books brought him joy, and art gave him power, and those fresh bagels down on the corner from his apartment building made him smile, and watching the children walk back from school, laughing between one another, made him reminisce of when he and Harry were younger and how it was much simpler. He has a supportive family, and a needy cat, a great job where he can work from home. And Zayn was under the impression that all of these things were an amalgamation of some type of happiness he deserved to have.

But now he has this. He isn’t sure exactly what it is yet, but he knows it’s good. He knows it makes his head fluffy like marshmallow, and it makes his heart feel both as heavy as a rock at the thought of it ending and as light as a cloud at the idea of it being there forever. He knows it’s here, in Liam’s arms, and Zayn could try to fit it in any other pair of arms, in any gap, in any crevice in the world and it simply wouldn’t fit, because it’s supposed to be right here. Under the heat of the sun and the stars in the sky, along a beach where he’s afraid to touch the water but safe if he’s in a pair of arms that practically live on it.

He has to leave in a few days. Which means leaving Liam, too.

An anger sweeps in like a draft; a frustration at time that dwindles down into a flame of sadness until it’s nothing but a spark until the wind picks it up again. And it’s hot in his chest, and yet cool in his fingertips as they wrap tighter around Liam’s shirt.

He’s leaving in a few days. And still, despite Liam’s best efforts, he still doesn’t know how to fucking swim.

Zayn moves away, watching as Liam’s eyes flutter open and everything comes back into focus. The daze is almost tangible on Liam’s face, and Zayn’s cheeks are flushed despite the warm. Zayn takes a step back and undoes the top button of his shirt, continuing until it’s fully open. His eyes are on Liam the whole time, who stares with a parted mouth.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

Zayn drops his shirt onto the sand. “I’m taking your advice and not thinking too much,” he says, before running at the sea.

His heart is pounding, but it has been for minutes, and the fear coalesces with the happiness until it’s something short of adrenaline, pumping through his veins and making his body empowered with energy.

“Zayn, you don’t have your jacket!” Liam calls after him.

“I don’t care,” he shouts back. “Come and join me if you’re so worried.”

Zayn almost regrets it the moment his body hits the water. It’s colder than he remembers, but he can’t back out now. He’s willed himself to a moment of complete non-thinking and is waiting for Liam to chase after him.

“You should submerge yourself into the water slowly, especially if you’re not used to it. You could go into shock,” Liam says as he catches up with Zayn.

“Now who’s overthinking,” Zayn teases, though he’s beginning to shiver.

Liam shakes his head. “You’re so stubborn.”

“Glad you’re finally getting to know me,” Zayn says. “I’m leaving in a few days.”

“I know,” Liam says. The disappointment in his tone is not lost.

“I want to learn how to float,” Zayn says.

“That’s why you jumped into the water?”

“Yes. I’m not you. I don’t swim out into a mass of predominantly undiscovered water for fun,” Zayn says. “It’s been three fucking days. Why can’t I do it?”

“We could have just tried it tomorrow. It’s going to rain, Zayn.”

“And what difference does it make if we’re in the water?” Zayn asks. “We’re already wet, Liam.”

“I guess you’re right,” he says.

Zayn moves out into the sea until the water is to his chin. The waves are tumultuous and of their own accord and bob him around unevenly, but, apart from a moment of panic, he makes a quick adjustment and understands when to tilt up slightly for the waves.

“If I can float, I’ll be able to swim, right?” Zayn asks.

“Swimming is just moving as you float.”

Zayn looks down at the water. In the dark, the sea looks a deep blue instead of it’s usual aquamarine, fading out into an almost black as it disappears into the distance. He can’t see his legs, not like he can in the pool. He only sees his fingers when they appear at the surface of the water.

He looks to Liam, who is standing a few meters away, watching. “I want to float.”

“Then, float,” Liam says. “Don’t wish. Tell yourself you’re going to do it.”

Zayn’s hesitation is drawn out to hold space for his determination, his will. His brows lower and his jaw tightens. In this moment, here in the water, he’s no longer that scared boy afraid of the sea. He is a man in love. He’s like Liam.

“I’m going to float,” he declares. And even if he doesn’t believe it completely, Liam’s encouraging smile is worth it.

He takes a breath and readies his arms. He knows the movement and the position. He remembers Liam’s words. Keep your arms as if you’re waving sideways, your feet like you’re riding a bike. He waits for the next wave to pass by before he picks his feet up from the ground.

At first, he slips, and his mouth and nose go under the water. Liam takes an alarmed step forward, but Zayn appears again, spluttering. His hands, frantic and anxious, calm down slowly as he remembers Liam’s words. His legs are already tired, but they’re kicking. He’s being kept in place by the friction of the water. Like a cloud under his feet. When the next wave passes them, Zayn doesn’t have to tilt his head away because he’s moving with the water.

“I’m okay,” Zayn says.

“Zayn,” Liam says slowly.

“What?” Zayn replies, before he realises. He tries to look down, but his nose goes under the water. When he lifts his head up, a shocked expression resides on his face, which, as the moments slip by, slowly turns into an elation that makes him laugh. “Oh, my God. Liam. I’m… I’m floating!”

“Yeah, I can see that.” Liam laughs. He moves forward so he’s stood beside Zayn and begins to float, too.

“I can’t believe it,” Zayn cries. “How incredible is that? Can you believe it?”

“Of course I can, Zayn,” he says. His grin is almost as wide as Zayn’s. “I knew you were incredible all along.”

Zayn reaches for Liam’s shoulder and pulls them together. He does it because his legs are already tired, but he doesn’t want to stop—a part of him afraid that he won’t be able to do it again—but the plus of being so close is that Liam’s lips are so close, and so kissable, that he can’t resist.

Eventually, Zayn wraps his legs around Liam’s waist and pulls him in even closer. The weight makes Liam sink to the bottom, his feet planted to the sea floor. Liam’s head is just above the water, but it’s tilted up so he can kiss Zayn, anyway. The water is cold, but with Liam’s touch, his gentle moans, his tongue and his teeth clashing with Zayn’s in passionate kisses, he feels like he’s secured in a bubble of warmth.

Then, the rain begins to tumble around them. It hits the water like pennies falling together on the ground, and the thunder rolls soon after. Their hair gets soaked, water on their faces like they’ve dunked themselves into the sea. And they’re laughing together, as one, and kissing again, desperately, in between.

“I did it,” Zayn breathes out.

“Yeah,” Liam says, gasping, “you did.”

“Thank you, Liam.”

“You don’t have to thank me, Zayn. It was all you,” he says. Liam pushes Zayn’s hair from his face and wraps his hand around Zayn’s neck, pulling him in again.

Zayn is so entranced by Liam, his lips, his mouth as it moves down to his neck in sweet kisses and back up again to suckle his lips, that he doesn’t realise Liam is moving them out of the water. The rain is still pouring, and their shirts that they left on the sand are soaked. Zayn can barely see Liam’s face in the dark, the moon now covered, except for when lightning strikes and the whole scene is illuminated. Only for a moment, but enough time to catch the desire on Liam’s face, and the seed of it, deep down within himself, that sprouts under the rain.

“Wanna come back to my place?” Zayn says. “I have a villa.”

“Oh, how luxurious. Does it have a bed?” Liam asks.

Zayn hums. “A big one.”

They leave a trail of water behind them as they go. Liam turns around so Zayn can shut the patio door quietly behind them. Zayn’s not even sure Harry is in, but he doesn’t want to wake him up if he is. Liam gets the wrong room twice and hits them into a doorframe—he can’t see with Zayn in his arms, is his excuse—and Zayn has to muffle his laughs with his hand.

Liam drops Zayn down onto the bed. Still wet, but the sheets will dry them, and if not the hot anticipation between their bodies will.  
 

A thought dawns on Zayn. “I don’t have any lube,” he says.

“Why not?”

“Well, I didn’t expect to be fucking some hunk from the beach, did I? I didn’t bring any with me.”

Liam chuckles. “Does Harry have any?”

Yes, Zayn thinks, definitely. Instead, he says, “Liam, I’m not going to barge into Harry’s room and ask him for lube. And you’re not going to, either.”

“He’d probably congratulate us,” he says.

“That’s embarrassing, Li.”

Liam brings his lips away from Zayn’s neck. “Fine.” He stands to his feet and circles the bed, so he’s stood to the side, where he drops to his knees and slides Zayn over the sheets by his ankles. “Come here, then.”

Liam’s fingers are expert around the buttons of Zayn’s shorts, undoing them with an ease that would make Zayn doubtful if he wasn’t already so pent up. Zayn lifts his hips so he can adjust, and Liam strips Zayn of his shorts and boxers together. He stares down at Zayn’s naked body, his mouth parted. His wide eyes are on Zayn’s cock, which is already hard and waiting to be touched. Pressed against his abdomen, it twitches under Liam’s stare, throbbing underneath the skin, desperate for Liam to reach out and touch him.

Zayn can hear the heaviness of Liam’s breath, and the pants of his own. Liam’s hands draw, at their own slow pace, circles into Zayn’s thighs, moving further up until they’re at Zayn’s hips, where they squeeze. Zayn whines in impatience. He’s surprised he’s not combusting, with the way Liam’s eyes are heavy with desire and an impatience he’s impressively holding back. He’s making Zayn wait. And Zayn just wants to grab Liam’s face and pull him down. Instead, he winds his hands into the sheets in a tight grip.

He makes the boys’ scream.

Zayn feels like he’s already close.

Liam leaves kisses along Zayn’s thighs, moving in closer. His lips wrap around the tip of Zayn’s cock, and Zayn tries not to buck his hips, but he can’t help it. It feels so good that he throws his head back, his mouth open wide. Liam suckles on the head for only a few moments. He moves up Zayn’s body, stopping at the peak of Zayn’s nipples and giving them sweet attention, before he finds Zayn’s lips again. Their chests are flush. Zayn rocks against the fabric of Liam’s shorts, covering the bulge below he’s gagging to see.

“Why have you still got these on?” he asks lowly.

“I’m getting to it, baby. Stop being impatient,” Liam says. He kisses Zayn’s jaw and leaves a strip up Zayn’s neck with his tongue. “You want me to go down on you?” Zayn only moans, his hands wrapped around Liam’s neck. “I’m gonna put you in my mouth, Zayn,” he says slowly, seductive. “But not that part, even though you taste so sweet.”

“Liam,” he moans.

When Zayn opens his eyes, Liam is gone again. He feels the trace of Liam’s lips down his chest, his abdomen. He plays with Zayn’s cock, his tongue making circles around the head, and then the touch disappears. Zayn watches him stand up, unbutton his shorts, and drop them to the floor. His own cock, bigger and wider, is heavy with protruding veins, red at the tip. Zayn can see it’s a strain for Liam to remain so calm when he’s so loaded to go. It’s in his eyes, his face, his vice-like jaw. The lust in Liam’s eyes is overwhelming and makes his legs shake.

“Touch yourself,” Zayn whispers.

Liam bites his lip but does as he’s told, and the tension it releases is dizzying. Liam’s eyes fall shut with a brief judder, but they’re still as wild when he opens them. He’s pumping himself, agonisingly slow, paced. Zayn wonders what it would feel like inside of him, in his mouth, warm and soft; between his legs, throbbing, hitting that spot. Zayn would treat him good. He’d be the man that made Liam scream. He can’t help but touch himself at the thought.

Liam is quick to step forward and remove his hand. He tuts and replaces Zayn’s hand with his, and he leans down to kiss Zayn and swallow his moans of delight. If he positioned himself just a little lower, their cocks would rub together.

Liam takes his place back on the floor. He spreads Zayn’s legs apart, resting them over his shoulders as he moves in close. He positions himself perfectly, centred, so when his tongue finally presses down—down onto that delicate, sensitive spot between Zayn’s cheeks—Zayn has to bite down on his hand to stifle his cry.

His one hand falls into Liam’s wet hair, where it grips hard and pushes Liam down further. He moves his tongue in stripes up and down, circling, pushing in and out and in any way that makes Zayn pant and moan. And it feels so good that Zayn can’t help but writhe under Liam’s touch, and Liam has to hold him down by his hips so Zayn can feel the full pleasure of it, the divine pressure building up in his abdomen.

Liam wraps his arm around Zayn’s waist and pulls him in even closer. He takes his hand and brings it around Zayn’s cock, where he pumps and squeezes the head between his fingers. His other hand is below, stroking himself in rhythm, reaching that climax with him. Zayn brings his hand over Liam’s and strokes with him, quickening when it’s not enough. Zayn forgets about Harry hearing and cares only about letting the moans in his throat be released into the air. And every few seconds, he goes completely quiet, so he can hear the sounds of Liam’s groans, feel the vibration of them against his skin, let it egg him on.

Liam is a moaner—the thought sends a shock through his body, and then he realises how loud that spark in his belly has become. And he’s panting. So hard that his throat burns. And he can see the pace of Liam’s hand around his own cock has quickened to the speed of the thrusts he finally allows Zayn to make with his hips. Up and down, and he circles. Liam’s tongue follows every action.

“Liam,” Zayn moans, his voice like the thunder outside, “I’m gonna come.”

He only gets to call Liam’s name once before it hits him. The fireworks. That flame in the end of his cock that combusts into white lines that spurt along his and Liam’s fingers. He doesn’t know what his voice is doing, but it’s loud, so loud that Zayn is sure that wherever Harry is, he can hear it. He’s coming down, his eyes half-open and dazed, but Liam hasn’t left him yet. He kisses that sensitive area gently, his lips leaving moistened marks around the surrounding skin.

Zayn sits up and wipes their hands on the sheet, before he leans in and kisses him. He pours his gratitude and his pleasure and his satisfaction into it, and Liam moans to let him know that he can taste it. Zayn looks down, and though Liam is biting at his ear and it feels delightful, he frowns. Liam has stopped stroking himself, but he’s still hard.

“Come here,” Zayn says, as he pulls away, “stand up.”

Liam does so without hesitation. He must be desperate. The end of his cock is wet with pre-come and, as Zayn gently traces his fingers down the length of Liam’s cock, it twitches. Zayn’s eyes widen in delight. It’s big, there’s no way he can fit the whole of it in his mouth, but he’s driven with his desire to please Liam, too.

Zayn takes it in his hand and spits on the tip, stroking the saliva all the way down. His eyes don’t leave Liam’s the whole time, his parted mouth or his pleading eyes. Liam’s hand strokes Zayn’s cheek as he watches and winds his fingers into Zayn’s hair.

He takes Liam into his mouth with fervour, rewarded with Liam’s moans. His hand tightens it’s grip in Zayn’s hair, and his hips don’t take long before they’re thrusting. Zayn lets him do it, lets him have control. He winds his tongue in a way that makes Liam’s knees buckle, makes him thrust faster into Zayn’s mouth. Zayn gags on it, but he loves it, moans his way through it, until Liam is a loosened mess and Zayn’s mouth tastes salty with his come.

Zayn swallows it all with pride, and Liam, as if eager, brings his tongue into Zayn’s mouth. Their tastes become one. Zayn straightens his back and rises to Liam’s level. He rests his weak arms around Liam’s neck and deepens their kiss. Liam’s hands find their way to Zayn’s backside, where he squeezes and slaps and makes Zayn laugh.

“You’re very good at that,” Liam says.

Zayn smirks. “Yeah? I wanted to give you something worth-while. A thank you, for helping me.”

“Are all your thank you’s like this?” Liam asks.

“They could be.”

Liam’s lips are soft as they kiss him. “You know, when you learn how to swim, I could fuck you in the water. Have you ever had ocean sex?”

“No,” Zayn mumbles. His eyes are tired, but he wants to look at the beauty of post-sex that lingers on Liam’s face. “What’s it like?”

“Strange, but good. It’s more pleasurable because of the water,” he says.

“Well, why can’t we do that now?” Zayn asks.

“Because you don’t know how to swim.”

“I know how to float.”

“I know.” Liam smiles. “But it’s different. I want you to be safe.”

Zayn kisses the end of Liam’s nose, and then his lips, his chin. “Stay the night?”

“I wasn’t planning on going anywhere,” Liam says. “Not until the morning. I have work.”

“Then stay, until then,” Zayn says, and pulls Liam forward.

They both land in between ruffled sheets, exhausted. Liam presses a kiss to Zayn’s forehead, and he falls asleep with a smile on his face. 

When he wakes up, the sheets are still damp and smell of salt from the ocean. Which isn’t want annoys him. As he wakes up and shifts his hand through the sheets, Liam is already gone.

He stands to his feet and ruffles his hair. He pulls a dressing gown from the back of his door and heads out into the main area. Zayn almost calls out for Liam but stops when he sees Harry sitting at the island in the kitchen. When he turns and notices Zayn, his lips fold up into a smirk.

“You know, last night is the first night that I’ve had to wear my earphones whilst sharing a house with you,” he says.

Though the air feels cooler, Zayn’s cheeks flush. “Was it that loud?”

“Yes,” Harry says bluntly. “I’m not embarrassed, you shouldn’t be either. I’m glad you enjoyed yourself.”

“Yes, but I didn’t want everyone to hear,” he moans. He takes a seat on the island next to Harry.

“Fuck everyone else. You were having fun. I don’t take the same courtesies.” Harry sips on his coffee.

“Yeah, I know you don’t,” he mumbles.

“Actually, it’s a good thing that you got it on last night,” Harry says.

Zayn narrows his eyes at him. Harry is looking down to the newspaper laid out on the counter, but he has that look on his face. That look that usually means he has something to say that Zayn isn’t going to necessarily like hearing.

“What is it?” he asks.

Harry turns in the chair slowly. His expression almost looks guilty. “We were supposed to leave in a few days. But I had a phone call and I have to be back in the states in the next two days. The flight will take half a day, and I have to drop you back to England first. Which means, we have to leave,” he explains.

Zayn’s shoulders fall. “What?”

“I know you were just starting to enjoy yourself. I’m sorry,” Harry says.

They have to leave. Today. But he was supposed to have a few more days with Liam. He was supposed to finally teach Zayn how to swim. They were supposed to have dinner together, and make love again, over and over, until Zayn had to leave. They were supposed to have that bittersweet goodbye and go their separate ways like in the movies. He can’t just leave.

“But Liam…” Zayn begins, but finds himself at a loss.

“I think it’s probably best if you go speak to him and explain,” Harry says. “I know you really like him.”

“Are you sure we have to leave today?” Zayn asks.

“I left Susan in charge of the business whilst I’ve been gone, and one of the agreements has fallen through,” Harry says, grumbling under his breath. “If I don’t go back today and sort it out, it could end in a law suit. And it’s the last thing I need.” He places a hand on Zayn’s knee. “Trust me, I wouldn’t leave if I had to. I’ve had fun, too. But it’s got to come to an end a little early.”

It doesn’t sink in that he has to leave until he’s in the shower and the cold water is jolting him awake. First, it’s a melancholy that seeps into his chest, which draws in anger, and his knuckles turn red as he hits the tiled wall. And then he’s sad again, because the prospect of never seeing Liam again makes him wish he hadn’t come along at all.

Harry would call him ridiculous for moping. Or maybe he wouldn’t. He’s had his fair share of dalliances to understand how the blow to the heart feels after it ends, when things have gotten too deep and you couldn’t stop them because you didn’t realise.

Liam is one of the best people he’s ever met, and there’s still so many layers of him that Zayn hoped he would be able to discover. But now he has to say goodbye. And it hurts. He’s going to miss Liam, and the hot weather, and even the ocean, which he won’t be able to look at anymore and not see good memories. Zayn smiles—perhaps, there’s one good thing to take away from all of this.

Zayn dresses and heads for the beach. There’s a breeze around, and dark clouds, and spots of rain that keep the beach quieter than the days before. His feet pick up into a jog as he heads for the lifeguard chair, but he pauses when he doesn’t recognise the man sitting on it.

“Hey,” Zayn says, “I thought Liam was on duty.”

“He had a shift this morning, but he’s gone now,” he replies.

“Do you know where he is?” Zayn asks.

“No, I’m sorry. He left about an hour ago,” the man says. “You want me to keep a message for him?”

Zayn sighs and his shoulders deflate. “No, it’s okay. Thank you.”

Zayn walks back to the villa with glossy eyes. They have to leave in an hour, and there’s no sign of Liam. He’s not going to be able to say goodbye. And Liam, thinking that Zayn and Harry will be here for a few more days, won’t even realise that they’re gone until it’s too late.

“What did he say?” Harry asks as Zayn walks back inside.

“He wasn’t there.” Zayn shakes his head. He can’t keep the disappointment from his voice as he says, “I don’t know where he’s gone.”

Zayn heads back to his room to pack. His shoves everything in with a lack of care. His clothes unfolded, his products in disarray. But he makes sure that his books are carefully placed in the bottom of the bag with no way of being bent. Next to it, to keep it safe, he lays Valo and quickly covers him with a shirt when he gets upset.

He meets Harry in the hallway not long after. Harry’s eyes are filled with guilt, even though he hasn’t done anything wrong. If anyone, it’s Zayn’s fault for getting his hopes up. Nothing could have ever possibly come of the relationship between Liam and him. Zayn is an editor in England, and Liam saves peoples lives half a world away. How could it have possibly gone right?

The drive to the airport is quiet on Zayn’s end. Harry is busy with phone calls with important people, and his frustrated tone and humorous angry faces keeps Zayn occupied for most of it, so he doesn’t have to think too much or speak.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Harry asks. His hand is on Zayn’s shoulder, his face concerned. “I’m sorry for ripping you away. I know you were happy.”

“I told you, it’s not your fault,” Zayn says.

“I’ll make it up to you,” he promises, and exits the car as his phone rings.

Zayn climbs out the other side and helps load the bags onto the jet, even though they tell him he doesn’t have to. It’s better than sitting around thinking. He doesn’t want to think. Maybe if Harry offers him a drink on the ride back, he won’t object this time.

He collects the last of his things from the back of the car and makes way for the jet. As he’s climbing the stairs, Harry appears in the doorway of the jet, blocking his view and looking surprised. He’s on the phone, so instead of talking, he’s just miming something that Zayn can’t understand.

He groans. “Oh, turn around, you idiot,” he says and shoves Zayn by the shoulders. “Look.”

The sun is high in the sky. Zayn has to squint and cover his eyes to see, but eventually he does. A small figure appearing larger by the second. It’s a person, a someone, and they’re hurried, their shadows growing longer behind them in the sun.

Zayn wonders why Harry thinks it’s so important. It could be an assistant; Harry might have forgotten something. Or an extra air hostess. It’s just some stranger running towards them that Harry really shouldn’t have been able to see from that far away.

But then, as he squints a little harder and walks down to the end of the stairway, he sees the blue life jacket being carried by their hands, and he realises it’s Liam.

Zayn’s heart picks up, and his feet are carrying him before he can stop them. As space between them closes, Zayn can hear Liam calling his name. And he calls back, hurried and rushed and relieved. Liam.

They stop in front of one another. Liam is panting, his face red from exertion, and the sun catches his eyes and makes him look beautiful. Zayn can’t help but smile. He’s here.

“You’re leaving,” Liam says between breaths. “You’re not supposed to leave yet.”

“I know. I—I tried to find you. You weren’t at the beach, I didn’t know where you’d gone,” Zayn says.

“Why are you leaving?”

“Harry—” Zayn begins and pauses. “Something came up and he has to leave. And I don’t have a way to get back. I have to go with him.”

Liam takes Zayn’s hand in his. “You could stay with me,” he says. “My house isn’t extravagant, nor is it a villa, but it’s nice, and it has a beautiful view of the sunset. You could stay with me. I could take care of you.”

Oh, Zayn thinks. His heart fills so much that it begins to overflow, and his eyes begin to gloss under the sun. He squeezes Liam’s hand, and the hopeful look in Liam’s eyes almost breaks his heart, changes his mind. A part of him wants to run away, to look back at Harry and say goodbye. But he knows he can’t.

“I think I have to go back home,” Zayn says. “I have a job waiting for me. And a cat.”

“I love cats,” Liam says. “What’s his name?”

“Small cat.”

Liam frowns and then, through the sad expression on his face bursts into laughter. Zayn follows him, his chest juddering with a mix of happiness and sorrow.

“You’re very succinct when it comes to names,” Liam says.

“I couldn’t think of anything else,” Zayn defends.

When a single tear falls down Zayn’s cheek, Liam wipes it away with the pad of his thumb.

“Please don’t cry,” Liam says.

“I don’t want to never see you again,” Zayn whispers. He bites his lip to stop it trembling.

Zayn looks down to the ground, but Liam doesn’t let him stay there for long. He hooks his finger under Zayn’s chin and meets him in the middle. And his eyes look like softened caramel in the light, his face just as sweet. Zayn brings his hand to rests on Liam’s arm, and he moulds into the touch as Liam brings his hand to rest on Zayn’s cheek.

They stay like that for a while. Their shadows grow larger behind them. Zayn knows Harry will wait and give them their moment, despite the fact they need to leave. Despite the fact neither of them want to.

“I could come with you,” Liam says quietly.

Zayn looks up, his eyes widening, his lips a bow as they open, waiting to sling out words of confusion. He sees the hesitation in Liam’s eyes, the mirrored unsurety in their breathing. But he feels Liam’s pulse and senses, like a pill that quickly opens and dissolves and rushes through his bloodstream, too, the desire and the need to do it.

“Come to England?” Zayn says.

“Is England where you’re going?” Liam asks.

“Yes.”

“Then, yes. Wherever you are, I want to be there, too.”

Zayn laughs. Not because anything is funny, but because he’s completely, wholeheartedly, dumbfounded and overcome with a strange emotion he doesn’t know what to call, even though his books show him all the time. His eyes are welled again with tears, but this time it’s for a different reason.

“You don’t have any of your belongings,” Zayn says.

Liam shrugs. “I’ll buy new ones.”

“Your job?”

“I’m sure they need lifeguards in England.”

Zayn frowns. “There aren’t many beaches around where I live. And most of them will be covered in snow, right now,” he says. “But Harry has a heated pool.”

Liam smiles. “As long as you can swim in it, that will work.”

Zayn points at the life jacket. “Is that for me?”

“I thought you might need it,” Liam says. “And I needed an excuse if you turned me away.”

“I wouldn’t do that,” Zayn says, his voice almost a whisper.

Liam looks at him knowingly, joy on his lips. “I know.”

Zayn steps forward, and Liam brings Zayn’s chin in close. But they don’t get to kiss, and instead are interrupted by Harry’s loud voice telling them to hurry up. They laugh, and Liam kisses Zayn anyway, long and drawn out and dramatic. They’re hand in hand as they jog up to the jet.

“Wait,” Zayn says, “do you have your passport?”

“I keep it in my wallet,” Liam says. “Passports go missing all the time in the Maldives.”

“I would have smuggled you on, anyway,” Harry says. “I wouldn’t have left you standing there, when you make Zayn smile like that.”

Zayn blushes and hits Harry’s arm. “That’s illegal, Harry.”

“I know. But I’m probably already going to court. So fuck it. Why not go all out?” he says and takes a seat in the middle of the jet.  
Zayn and Liam take the settee opposite. Their hands are still entwined. Zayn glances at Liam, and Liam glances at Zayn, and they both look away, smiling to themselves. And when Zayn isn’t looking, Liam kisses his cheek, and Zayn’s face goes red.

Harry is watching them with a smirk, a glass of something already in his hand. He looks Liam up and down—his shorts, and his shirt with the cut sleeves, and his sandals—and he begins to laugh.

“What’s so funny?” Liam asks.

“You’re going to be really fucking cold when we reach the UK.”


End file.
